


Mother Hen

by GalekhXigisi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Child Abuse, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Gaslighting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Peter Parker, Transphobia, Unfinished Not Abandoned, Whump, Winged Peter Parker, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:23:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: They're just trying to get through life and parent correctly, but God damn does Peter Parker that after Tony Stark.





	1. Chapter 1

Peter slips through the night, inhaling quickly as he moves. Things had truly changed in the past five years. People were dead from the past, people like _Aunt May._ He had been rooming with Sam and Bucky, would be until the two moved away or went back to Wakanda, whichever came first. He was just newly fifteen. He wasn’t like Harley, who was nineteen and had his own place, or Nebula, who was an adult now going with her sister and their mismatched friends. He sure as Hell wasn’t like Morgan, either, who seemed to be just existing with her mother.

 

Bucky doesn’t always like the way he slips out. Peter knows that just as well as Sam does. Despite that, he still does it, continuously leaving. It’s a vicious cycle of checking to make sure he can still hear their heartbeats before leaving the home with trained silence. Not to mention the fact that he was pretty good with his stealth anyway. Lying, no, but he could be stealthy if he absolutely needed to be.

 

The night is quiet. It had drastically calmed since the second _[or, well, third, technically fourth]_ snap had happened. Crimes had decreased. Some people refused to leave their homes at night, or really at all. Peter was more than just a little confused when he came back and went through all the memes he had missed out on, but he liked them all the same. As it turned out, the fifth Shrek wasn’t as bad as everyone expected, nor was it as good as the first few.

 

His senses tingle as he rounds a corner. It’s his fault for not paying attention to his surroundings, for getting caught up in his head. Despite that, he still runs into the person. Their heads knock together and whatever was held in their hands fall all over Peter. Within an instant, the spiderling is profusely apologizing, attempting to pick up the vials. None of them are broken but the liquid is still splattered all over Peter and soaking through his suit. None of it burns and the person in front of him isn’t yelling, either, so he thinks that _maybe_ he’ll be alright.

 

However, the person suddenly seems to pull out of their shock whenever he frowns and asks if they’re okay. THey burst out with, “You’re fucking Spiderman!”

 

The other pauses, slowly forcing a nod. He laughs softly. “Is it that obvious?”

 

“You have on the suit, of course, it is.” They smile widely. “Oh, gosh, I don’t think that my serum stuff will work on you, then.” Their voice trails off as they consider it for a moment.

 

“What’d you mean by that?” He glances at the vials, holding them out.

 

“For our chemistry and biology class, we have to breed these eggs and see if we can get another thing out of them. I was going for a bird sort of hybrid. Unfortunately, I don’t think it will work on humans, much less a superhuman, and much _much_ less a superhuman with spider DNA in their own human DNA.”

 

Peter pauses for a moment himself, thinking it out. He eventually shrugs in reply. “Yeah, probably not, my DNA is pretty wild.” His attention turns as he rethinks the words. “What classes are you taking, anyway? They sound pretty advanced to be doing stuff like that.”

 

“Advanced chemistry and biology to be a professor at a college, actually,” they supply. THeir cheeks flush with a bright blush after a moment, though. “Or, at least, that’s the aim.”

 

“You’re so young! How many years do you have left?”

 

Their cheeks flush all the darker. “This is actually my last year. I’m a prodigy.”

 

The two continue their conversation, calm as can be. Peter’s honestly tempted to exchange numbers with them, though he pauses when he realizes that they didn’t actually exchange names and his secret identity could be compromised. Instead, they give him their number with the name _Keener_ written over the top of it. The only explanation had been _in case something does happen._

  
When Peter looks up to ask if it's their first name, last, or simply an alias, he finds the other gone from their spot. 


	2. Chapter 2

Peter slips into the home with a frown. His muscles ache, but he supposed wearing a tight suit in the rain wasn’t the best option. His binder wasn’t sitting right on his chest and he knew he needed to get it off. The living room is, for the most part, silent. The television is muted, subtitles playing on it as Sam stares, lips repeating the words, no noises leaving him. Bucky is knowingly in the kitchen, a pot of coffee on for the two of them. 

 

Peter isn’t allowed to have coffee, not after the spider bite. Every single time he had it, it always felt as if his organs were vibrating and his stomach would lurch. It may have been a sort of reaction due to the spider bits of his DNA, but he couldn’t care less. Bucky had been awfully solid on the  _ “no” _ part after he had seen the whacky webs that had become the result of it. It didn’t help his anxiety, either, so they had settled that pretty quickly. 

 

Bucky does emerge from the kitchen. His eyes scan over the child that walks through the living room, soaked to the bone with cold rain. He softly supplies, “You look like Steve,” as he takes a sip of his coffee, moving to sit beside Sam as passively as he can. 

 

Peter raises a brow, humming. “What’d you mean?” 

 

“He was small and scrawny before the serum.” He doesn’t look at the teenager, focused on the television. “He was a hundred pounds sopping wet and always stooped over. You just look a lot like him now.” He shrugs with a passive quirk of his lips. 

 

The youngest nods softly, eyes flitting over to Sam. The Falcon seems to be focused on the television but he knows he’s hearing their conversation just fine. In fact, he gets proof of it when the adult starts speaking. “You know, Pete, we’re not going to suddenly get dusty on you all over again.” 

 

He freezes, eyes staring at the hero that still focuses on the television. His mind repeats it more than just one time, hand pressed to his door handle but not yet daring to open it. His mind recounts his words a million times over, repeating them again and again. He remembers everything. The feeling of it all flooded back to him angrily. 

 

Everyone said their  _ “dusting” _ was painless, that they didn’t feel anything. He felt it, though. There was the buzz in the back of his head that spread through his entire body within a millisecond, just as his spidey senses always did. This felt a million times worse. If not for the fact that he was somewhat expecting it, he would have been knocked off his ass instantly. His body continued to buzz, growing from spidey senses buzz to something unbearably painful. The pain that overwhelmed him was just like fire.  _ [Which he had felt a time or two, but don’t tell Mr. Stark- Oh.] _

 

He remembers blubbering to Tony for a moment, begging him for answers. When his body began to vanish, things became unbearable, worse. He passed out from the overwhelming emotions and woke up with Doctor Strange in his face. Everything seemed like a horrid fever dream after he woke up, but apparently, everyone felt that. He learned magic from the Doctor, learned tricks from Loki, followed Sam and Bucky around like a lost puppy until he lost them. He followed anyone around that would let him, including Hope, the woman who took the alias  _ The Wasp. _ She was a lot calmer about this than he thought a lot of other people had the right to be, but her  _ parents _ were there and Peter adored their work. 

 

Coming back hadn’t been easier. It hurt just as bad but he tolerated it more so the second time around, stayed conscious and all. He could admit he was excited to see everyone once again. 

 

“Peter,” Bucky asks, a hand pressing to the teen’s shoulder. 

 

The teenager jerks, jumping away. He probably would have been on the ceiling if not or the hand pressed to his shoulder. His eyes flit over the other two, Sam staring at him with concerned shock while Bucky retracts. It takes him a second more than he’s proud to announce to say that he’s holding his own door handle in his hand, pieces of wood attached to it. 

 

“We… Should probably fix that.” Peter’s voice trails off as he stares at his hands. After a moment of tense silence, he presses the doorknob into Bucky’s hand, retreating into the room with his brows furrowed and mind knitting its own little pattern of thought. He makes his way to the bathroom and frowns as he hears the television finally gets turned up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain why the television is muted, when I get worried, my sensory overload can go way up in milliseconds, both because of my own PTSD and general anxiety. Of course, both Sam and Bucky with (probably) PTSD, I don't doubt that at least one of them would have something similar to being sensitive to sounds much more than that is common. Now, I'm not generalizing it here, as my PTSD is from separate things and not war and such, but I am using specific triggers that personally adhere to me. Subtitles give me something to focus on and I can follow subtitles easier than actual words with sound. Plus, it helps with reading lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter’s slow to rise in the morning, eyes half-lidded and lifeless. It’s not uncommon anymore, finding the dark circles around his eyes and lifeless expressions. In fact, Ned comments more about how sad he looks than anything else now, including MJ or even his girlfriend. Peter isn’t even sure when things got this bad. 

 

His back aches as he stretches, sharp pains going through his shoulder blades. He frowns as his back pops. He didn’t pull anything out of its sockets, he was sure of that. Last time he had, it was on fire until he had Loki shove it back into place.  _ That _ had been incredibly painful. He couldn’t say he was the most surprised, but that didn’t help that damn spider DNA was constantly fighting his body then, repairing itself while the socket just re-tore everything over and over again. 

 

He glances over to his door, finding that the hand actually  _ had _ been replaced. It usually took a week before anyone in the home actually did anything which was the current reason the dishes were piled up in the kitchen. They had a system, though, so it worked just fine for all of them. On Sunday night, Bucky would clear out the sink and run the water, Peter would wash the dishes, and Sam would rinse them. It was a process that they had grown incredibly used to over the course of two and a half months, one silently agreed upon. 

 

However, Peter pauses, nausea boiling inside of his stomach. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s running to the bathroom, pushing Sam out of the way to get there. He just barely makes it to heave into the toilet. Within a moment’s notice, Sam is there, gently rubbing the lower half of his back. It was amazing how quickly they fell into family roles, but no one commented on it.  _ [Natasha would have, but Peter keeps that little conclusion to himself, mostly because it brings tears to his eyes.] _

 

“You alright, kid,” Sam asks when the vomiting seems to stop. 

 

Peter’s mind reels at how similar it sounds to Tony Stark, just like the first time Peter had been sick in front of the billionaire. Instead of stewing on that thought, Peter nods, moving to flush the toilet. “I’m good,” he mumbles, shrugging the other off with his brows furrowed. It’s not angry nor passive aggressive, simply something there. He moves to get his toothbrush. 

 

Peter glares at the adult, toothbrush planted in his mouth as he supplies an angry, “Stop looking at me like that.” 

 

“Like what,” Sam calls back, standing from his stop on the floor. 

 

“Like Aunt May does-  _ did _ when she thought I was lying and went all parental mode.” He moves the brush and glares at the mirror. He hates the reminder he gave himself without even realizing. 

 

“Well, I  _ do _ think you’re lying,” Sam insists, a hand stuck out. 

 

“You’re not my dad,” Peter chokes out in return. He thinks back to his parents, brow pinched as he moves his attention to the sink. The memories flood through about their deaths. They were never the best of parents, far from it, but he was just a baby duckling following their leads, following the subtle gaslighting. 

 

Sam’s own brows furrow. “I know I’m not, but I’m taking care of you now. I have a right to worry about it, about  _ you.” _

 

The teenager glares at the sink, angrily brushing his teeth as he watches the water drip slowly. “I’m fine, then. Not good, but fine. I’m content with where I am and there’s nothing wrong.” 

 

“Bullshit,” the adult grumbles. 

 

Peter turns sharply towards the other, glare fierce. He’s ready to tell Sam off, to get him the Hell off his back, but he pauses. His mind jumbles and feels like static as he stares at the adult. His arms are held at his sides, brows knit and a parental glare forced at the younger. It was something Aunt May never would have been able to pull off. When she got angry, she was far more likely to cry than anything else. But this was something he had seen on his parent’s own faces, on Uncle Ben’s face, on  _ Tony’s _ face. And he does a double take, flinching. 

 

“Just go away,” the teen yelps in his face, pushing him out of the bathroom with a quick shove. He normally would have never considered even doing something like that, but his mind was running a million miles a minute and he wants to cry or maybe even punch someone but he stays silent about it in favor of slamming the bathroom door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blease comment, I need y'alls opinions on this or I'll just be like Tinkerbell and fucking die


	4. Chapter 4

_ The fingers are cool, pressed against his skin despite the red that stained her knuckles and the bottom half of his own face. It wasn’t the first time she clung to him, cradling him and rocking herself more than anything else. However, his mind does wander into asking when it had become something that was  _ normal, _ predictable even.  _

 

_ “I’m so sorry, baby,” she whimpers out, “I won’t do it again.” She will, they both know it. Blood stains her shirt, dying the white a yucky, deep red that would knowingly just make her throw it away and fuss at him later for getting blood all over her front.  _

 

_ His father glares, shaking his head disapprovingly. It was always the same actions, over and over again, his father with a cigarette in his mouth and his mother with a bottle of liquor in her own. The Parkers seemed to be built off of lies more than truths. Lies had built up their foundations as far as Peter knew, but he always did his best to always tell the truth and stick away from their numbing anger whenever he could avoid it. _

 

_ The child was called a tomboy when he refused his own name; When he was found wearing boys clothes; When he was found roughhousing with the others; When he came to school with a broken arm and a bunch of cuts that he blamed on throwing himself off the slide at the park; When he punched a girl and two boys for using his birth name before starting a full-on brawl of little six-year-olds in the schoolyard. Now, he could name at least three times in the past day that his mother called him a word he had only heard when she or his father were glaring at the colorful people in the rainbow parades with wide smiles and happy exteriors. The two adults always glared and offered mean comments while Peter sat in the background and admired them for being so out there and happy.  _

 

_ He’s near silent as she rocks him, as she cries in his shoulder. His father downs more than just a few gulps from the bottle Peter was only allowed to touch if he was getting it for one of his parents or putting it on the bench beside them. He had learned when he was only a few years old and ended up on the floor with a harsh bruise on his cheek.  _

 

_ “S’okay, Mom,” he mumbles to the other, comforting her while she sobs.  _

 

_ His father walks out of the room with the bottle. Peter would have commented about how it was Mom’s drink and not his, but he knew there were another three bottles hid in the fridge, at the back of the top shelf just out of his reach. He never went after those ones after he accidentally broke the top shelf trying to get a slice of cheese for his sandwich and shattered the bottles that always seemed to be replenished by the next morning. That had been the first time there had ever been blood anywhere and he could distinctly remember the cold, angry look that lingered in his parent’s eyes as they yelled at him like he had been going after it in an attempt to deprive them of their favorite drink despite his father telling him to get it.  _

 

_ Things were never alright. Beatings came nightly when his parents were riled up, whether it be over the bills or each other or whatever their boss or coworkers did to piss them off that morning. Scars littered his body, just underneath the thick clothing he would wear in the bitching heat of the summer that nagged at his breathing and constantly made him worry at his bottom lip because it was too hot and his parents refused to let him go inside to get away from the sickening feeling of bile that would soon burn at his throat.  _

 

_ He still loves them. He knows there isn’t a reason why, but he loves them. Maybe is was a baby duckling sort of instinct, perhaps it was Stockholm syndrome of sorts, or maybe it was even because he didn’t know anything else outside of it. Nothing in his life was constant enough for him to actually know that this treatment wasn’t normal. He didn’t even know the word abuse existed until he was in fifth grade when it was a vocabulary word, so his little six-year-old brain sure as Hell didn’t either.  _

 

_ The only constant in Peter’s life were his parents. His aunt and uncle came around once every few months and Peter got to watch his folks straighten up and act as if they didn’t leave Peter with a nasty set of scars trailing along his backside because he had gotten in the middle of their fight the night before and a glass plate had been shattered on his back, aimed at his mother. Or that an alcohol bottle had done the same on his left hip two weeks ago because it was aimed at his father and he had walked out of the bathroom at the wrong time. Damn his mother for aiming below the belt. [And for being such a horrible shot when drunk off her ass.]  _

 

_ He falls silent, his mother patting his head with her hand that isn’t bloodied and holding a bottle before slipping into carding her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t slip away from her grasp until she passes out two hours later. He finds his father asleep on the couch with the Saturday news playing as loud as the television with will let it. Peter turns it off before silently making his way to his room.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just kinda sad today so yeet, take this bullshit.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter isn’t sure how long he stands in the bathroom. Maybe it’s five minutes, maybe it’s an hour. He can’t be sure but he knows that when he slips out, his eyes are red and puffy, darkness swallowing the once milky skin. His back aches at least three times worse. It reminds him all too much of when he was younger and in the hospital after having a panic attack, asthma attack, and having horrid pulmonary embolisms that just made his breathing a million times worse. Ben had been the one that coerced him into being calm that week, but he was gone now. 

 

The teenager takes a seat on the couch, to Bucky’s left. Sam sits on the adult’s right, stone-faced and calm. Or, at least, Peter hopes that he’s actually calm. The new Captain could be angry for getting kicked out of the bathroom, or for getting yelled at. There were honestly a million possibilities, but Peter flushes them from his mind in hopes of things getting somewhat better. 

 

“I think… I’d prefer you were my parents over my real ones,” Peter mumbles to the two. He focuses on a dot above the television as their eyes dart to the dot above the television. “You two care a lot more than they do.” 

 

Bucky raises a questioning, worried brow. “Do you want to talk about it,” the adult asks with a hint of sadness piquing through his tone. 

 

Peter remembers when Sam Ony had said that Bucky was actually someone that cared for people a lot more than he let on, becoming the parental friend the instant he genuinely got attached to someone or felt like he owed them a debt. He had to force himself to supply, “I’m not sure, honestly.” 

 

The room is a lot tenser than any of them like, but they all stay silent. It feels like the wrong words will shatter the moment and send the teenager running off like a deer caught in headlights. Honestly, they weren’t that far off. Peter  _ does  _ have to gather himself in order to even consider talking to the two he now calls his legal guardians. 

 

“They didn’t like that I wasn’t super… girly. My mom used to hug me after she…” He pauses. Did he  _ really _ want to tell them? Was he really ready for that? It only took Ned a month or two to unlock his Tragic Backstory  _ [Trademark]. _ These two, they were  _ heroes, _ they had been through enough. Hell, the newest Captain America was actually an outlaw on the run but the country had welcomed him back with open arms the instant there came the announcement that Iron Man was dead. That damned contract that sparked on their entire fight had gone up in flames without hesitation thanks to Fury and those two deaths that saved the universe. 

 

The two stay silenced, awaiting an answer. It’s expected but Peter knows that if he decides to turn the other way and not reply, they’ll accept it within an instant. They won’t pressure him into replying, nor will they ask him about it later. They’ll wait for him to bring it up, for him to be comfortable enough, for him to text them at hours when none of them should be awake but they all are, for  _ him. _ They hadn’t poked nor prodded when he broke down in the kitchen because he had shattered a plate and it welled up so many emotions that he just  _ broke, _ sobbing as the shards pierced his skin. They had cleaned him up without a single word, calming him down. Things had been  _ tame. _

 

“Both parents were abusive,” he mumbles after a rough few minutes of silence. He stares at a random spot on the wall where pictures used to hang from the family before them. For some reason, he can’t push any further with his stomach, all the words caught in his throat. It feels like he swallowed a golf ball. 

 

The room falls silent after that, Peter curling up in Bucky’s side without a single comment from either. The two adults know the pattern. Peter would seek out warmth, seek out touch. It was something that would ground him far better than words. Everyone that had seen him genuinely upset about something knew that. They had learned it rather quickly. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Bucky’s brows knit as he glances at his lover. Sam seems to sport a similar question as they walk through the store. Bukcy is the first to take up any verbal conversation about the topic that prodded at both of them. He softly asks, “What’re we going to do about Peter?” 

 

The adult turns sharply, a brow raised. He relaxes after a moment. “I don’t know, Buck. There’s a lot to unfold there.” 

 

Bucky raises a questioning brow. 

 

“That’s sounded bad.” 

 

The long-haired hero nodded in agreement, turning to pull up a box of macaroni. “It did, yeah.” 

 

“You know what I mean, though, right?” 

 

He shrugs. “Not really.” 

 

“What I  _ mean _ is that we’re not therapists. He’s lost literally  _ everything. _ He didn’t do any of that willingly, either, like we did.” 

 

That pulls Bucky’s attention to the other without any hesitation, jerking him away from where he was glancing at prices. They  _ had _ willingly done so, both giving in to being whatever they were now. Heroes? Villains? Chaotic neutrals? Outlaws? Simple do-gooders on the wrong side of it all? There were so many different titles they could be given in all, yet they still managed to keep each other sane and calm through the bouts of fighting. This is entirely  _ new. _

 

“We’re not exactly parenting material, either, if you understand what I mean.” 

 

“An ex-assassin and his outlaw husband-boyfriend-something?” 

 

Sam looks like he’s about to say something, but he falters and stops when a little blonde girl runs past, waving at the two as her tired mother trails behind with a smile, apologizing to the two. They smile in return, supplying that  _ it’s okay _ because it really is. 

 

“Like that,” Sam supplies, “We didn’t see any kids first steps or moments like that.” 

 

“We still adopted him,” Bucky argues. “Besides, I’m not sure if his real parents did, either.” 

 

The other nods in return. It’s a bit of a bitter comment but they both know it to be true. James tosses a couple of boxes into the cart before the two trudge forward with soft sighs. 

 

“What I’m  _ saying _ is that we need to maybe, I don’t know? Take a couple of parenting classes? Something like that? We can’t keep calling Clint every time we get confused on what to do.” 

 

“You’re not saying this because we didn’t realize he slept for a full thirty-six hours earlier, right,” the other asks, eyes half-lidded and somewhat bored with that. 

 

Sam huffs. “Honestly forgot about it. That, too, then.” 

 

“It’s not like we completely forget about him, Sam. We just forget that he’s not out being a hero all the time.” 

 

Sam nods passively, but it doesn’t have the effect he wants. “We should at least talk to him. Not about today, but maybe just about how he’s feeling. Or get him a therapist of some sort like Pepper recommended?” 

 

“Of course we’re getting him a therapist at some point.” Bucky nods this time. “The only hero I can think of that didn’t see a therapist was…” He pauses, brows furrowing. Slowly, he shrugs. Even Thor had seen a therapist with Bruce just months before. “We have to help him somehow. Neither of us are exactly the parental type, I get it, but we aren’t therapists, either. We’re two guys learning to be heroes  _ and _ dads at the same time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadass don't like the second half of the chapter but here's a quick update. I'll actually get to Peter's wings next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of drinking bleach but it's not suicide-like. Peter's just a dumb bitch that we love.

Peter remembers the first time he had showered in the home. He had had a panic attack and accidentally shattered one of the doors, much to Sam and Bucky’s dismay. Apparently, they’ve all shattered the door a time or two, specifically the left one and once the right when Sam sneezed and somehow managed to shatter it after punching it. The walls had felt like they were closing in on him, his claustrophobia burning at his stomach. He hadn’t even been claustrophobic before Toomes before a building fell on him. Ever since then, anything could give him a panic attack and showering in cold water was mostly off limits, too easily of a reminder of that cool water that had almost choked him while tons of concrete and metal weighed him down. 

 

Now, he can usually shower just fine. The lights stay off when he’s in there, avoidance to his body, to the dysphoria that charged through him every time he acknowledged it. Neither Sam nor Bucky questioned him when they found out. In fact, Bucky seemed to follow the same pattern he did. It makes it so much easier to fall into a family-like dynamic. It helps that when he grabs the wrong bottle, his spidey senses always go off, which is weird but still appreciated. He guesses his powers cared for his hairs’ wellbeing, then. 

 

But at this very moment, his throat feels like it’s closing like he were about to burst into tears. Peter’s back aches far more than it had hours before. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he had a blood clot, but that was an entirely different type of burn. He knew that one from a multitude of dangerous situations that could’ve been fixed easily but he was too balls-y to deal with properly. This feels like someone’s carving his back with a knife, which was something he, unfortunately, knew thanks to being Spider-Man and a few lowlives getting a couple of good hits on him. 

 

His shoulder blades seethe in protest to the muscles there, skin a similar heat to a horrid sunburn. His mind knots as his spidey senses seem to send a jolt through his body without remorse, coming every few seconds and prodding at his mind. He knew it wasn’t any genuine danger, that was less erratic and constant, something that gave him only seconds, perhaps minutes on the best of days before something happened. Warm water beats down on his back as he presses his forehead to the cool water, forcing himself to breathe through it. He had had a building thrown on him, for fuck's sake, this was  _ nothing. _

 

Suddenly, though, it was something, because Peter throws the shower door open, listening to it clatter as he pulls the toilet seat up to vomit. Their landlord surely wouldn’t be happy if they shattered the door for the seventh time, but he can’t find it in him to care. His spidey senses scream so loudly that it feels like he’s dying once again. It was like when he was dusted, watching everyone die painlessly before everything lit on fire. it ‘s harsher than the time he drank bleach because Ned said his healing factor would save him and MJ said it wouldn’t. Bucky had never once been more concerned for his idiotic, child mind when he saw the teenager puking his guts out  _ [they were still unsure if it was literally or figuratively, but the debates about it had stopped] _ because he was the deciding vote and had simply shrugged before watching the teenager inhale the poisonous liquid and come up laughing as if he had just taken a shot instead of almost killing himself. 

 

It’s all over before he realizes what’s even going on. It feels like his back….  _ Burst open? _ He freezes up, brows knit and mouth partially open as he moves to slowly flick on the lights. The first thing he notices while stretched out is that he broke  _ both _ glass doors, not just the one like he had dreaded. The second is that there’s a lot of blood and glass, but none of the glass had wounded him. 

 

He leans up to examine what he had done. The walls are covered in blood, glass lying on the floor in multiple shards, all large and generally safe as long as he doesn’t run his hand across the edges. Suddenly, the bloody things that he didn’t even know could exist  _ did, _ wings attached to his back and following him as he moved, signaling that they were  _ his. _ His hands slowly move to touch the bloodied things only to flinch away as he felt pressure on the new appendages. 

 

“Holy  _ shit,” _ he whispers, brown eyes widening as he stares. “How the  _ fuck _ am I going to explain this to Sam and Bucky,” he questions aloud, eyes scanning over the bloodied mess. He hesitantly moves under the water, beginning to clean himself off. He knew he should have been freaking out much more than he was, but he had seen worse, amazingly. 

 

His fingers run over the feathers, no longer flinching away from his own touch. It was  _ weird, _ he would admit that, but this was a different weird. This wasn’t something anyone normally went through, but, then again, no one ever really went through getting bit by a radioactive spider, either, so who was he to ask such a thing? He was that one in seven billion  _ [-ish] _ people to get bit. Hell, spiders didn’t even normally bite, so there was the prodding question of  _ why _ that he had flicked off. 

 

Maybe he can get used to the wings just as he had gotten used to the spider powers? To being Spider-Man? 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, comment your thoughts! I am a thirsty hoe that needs reviews!!
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